The unbearable softness of a potions master's lap
by Sister of Mayhem
Summary: Nothing is as burdensome as a secret. But Harry thinks this particular one might just snowball into something good.


_"One for sorrow,_

_Two for joy,_

_Three for a girl,_

_Four for a boy,_

_Five for silver,_

_Six for gold,_

_Seven for a secret_

_never to be told"_

_HP_

Harry Potter was an adventurous wizard, everyone knew that, and he loved a good secret like any other boy his age. He learned a lot of secrets about Hogwarts during the years when he was a teenager, and secrets about Voldemort's past and unfortunately about the ways of war, too. And then there was professor Snape's secret.

It was a secret, so astounding, that Harry was sure there wasn't anybody to be found in the entire castle who would believe it. The secret concerned professor Snape's lap.

Harry was still so very young when he found himself, entirely by accident, on Severus Snape's lap one day, and a world opened up to him. Turned out his professor's lap was, in fact, a wonderful place to be. Who would have thought?

Of course, for Harry it hadn't been Severus' lap at first. It had just been professor Snape's back then. But that only lasted until that day in June, back in his seventh year, when Harry dared to whisper Severus' name in his ear, wasn't reprimanded for it and realized he could finally stop using that formal title. And even then it didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, because eventually it turned out it wasn't even Severus' lap after all. In the end, it simply became _Harry's_, and no one else's.

Harry learned all about that peculiar lap the way he always did: stupidly, stumblingly, by accident…

HP

His first encounter with Severus' lap was during a Quidditch match in his first year. Harry had only been at Hogwarts for a few months; still a child, so to speak. Eleven years young he was and already full of unbridled enthusiasm when it came to Quidditch. So when there was a match, Harry could be counted upon to be in the front row with his friends. He would never miss a game if he could help it.

Hufflepuff played against Slytherin that crisp November day. It was a few minutes until the start of the game. The crowd, already in their seats, was buzzing with excitement. Harry tried to snake his way through the rows of chairs, looking for Ron and Hermione. He'd run back to the castle just ten minutes ago because he'd forgotten his scarf in the Common Room, but he couldn't remember where his friends had sat down. He sighed and tried to find the red and gold of their Gryffindor scarfs in the huge crowd of students. The sky was unabashedly blue, and the late afternoon sun hung low, making him squint around, blind as a bat. He prayed for Hufflepuff. Merlin knew how hard it would be to spot the snitch or dodge a bludger in this weather, if he couldn't even find his own friends.

"Ouch, watch out!" someone muttered angrily, "You're stepping on my toes, you moron!"

Harry blushed and took a quick step back.

"Sorry, didn't mean to…" he muttered.

"What are you doing here anyway?" the girl asked annoyed, "You're in the Slytherin stand. Gryffindor's over there."

Harry looked at where the girl was pointing and at that exact moment, like it was synchronized, he heard Hermione's voice call out over the crowd: "Harry, over here!"

Harry recognized the fluffy brown curls and the shock of ginger hair and sighed in relief. He shuffled forward again, intent on reaching his friends before the game began.

No such luck. Slytherin's team chose to make its appearance on the pitch then, and the crowd around him got up as one, loudly cheering encouragement to the players of their house team. Harry swayed where he stood, taken by surprise by the sudden uproar. It all happened very quickly then. Some overheated Slytherin fan flung her arm in Harry's face by accident, and Harry was forced to take a few steps back.

He just started shouting "Hey, careful…" when there were suddenly those too large feet out of nowhere and Harry knew at once he didn't stand a chance. He tripped, and he could just make out a flash of black out of the corner of his eyes before he lost his balance and fell irrevocably backwards towards his doom.

"_Crap, not him…"_ Harry thought desperately. In the second it took to land on the man's lap, he racked his brain in a frenzy to find something that would keep him from falling. Anything at all. A branch to hold onto, suddenly charmed out of the sky. A rope, thrown to him by an invisible ally. His Nimbus 2000, sweeping him away before he could land on that wretched man's lap.

No such luck. In the blink of an eye he was sitting on Severus Snape. All around him students were roaring their support for the Slytherin team and Harry just sat frozen. He was aware that professor Snape had gone just as rigid as he had, and amidst all the cheers and shouts, the silence that fell between them was deafening. Harry swallowed, not daring to turn around to the menacing presence looming behind him. He didn't even know why his throat was suddenly so parched. He shouldn't let the fact that the vilest teacher of Hogwarts was breathing down his neck get to him so easily…

Harry realized that a few seconds had ticked away already and he was still perched on his professor's lap. The man hadn't done anything. He hadn't pushed him off, hadn't insulted Harry in any way, he hadn't even moved an inch in fact. Harry began to think he could sit there for the remainder of the day without any consequences at all. It _was_ a pleasant lap, he couldn't deny that. Then a few students around them noticed what was going on. They started to nudge each other and soon the first chuckle sounded. Hearing that, Harry was on his feet in no time at all, like something had bitten him. He turned around, meaning to mutter a quick apology and then get the hell out of there as fast as possible, but the words got stuck in his throat when he finally caught sight of his professor's expression. He could only come to one conclusion: Bad luck was really out to get him.

Later, when he was older and more confident, Harry would learn to read beyond the death glare Snape could send him at times. He would learn to recognize the fear behind the anger; fear to lose control mostly. He would know when there was lust mingled in with that furious gaze or he would realize when Snape was secretly mocking him while pretending to be displeased. But he was an eleven year old boy back then, and as easily terrified as any other kid would have been when faced with a furiously glowering teacher. All his courage left him when he looked into those coal black eyes that were shimmering with annoyance and disdain. Snape's hands were in his lap, and they were balled up in a fist, like he had to refrain himself from strangling Potter right then and there. He looked at him like he was something filthy, something unwanted, and Harry didn't understand the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. He'd had Uncle Vernon looking at him exactly like that and it hadn't bothered him one bit.

"I, erm…" he muttered thickly. No other words left his mouth, while in the few seconds he stood there, that merciless gaze drilled its way into his core like nothing else ever would. Harry took a faltering breath, then turned around and ran, tripping over several feet on his way and not minding at all. Snape's glare still in the back of his mind, Harry didn't understand why he was feeling so out of breath, so afraid, so achingly raw. He was only a boy, and hardly able to recognize the extent of what he was feeling, but he was nonetheless aware that that gaze had done _something_ to him.

Harry was eleven when Severus Snape permanently settled in his heart, or in what Harry thought to be his heart when he got older, while it was still only his stomach.

HP

Time moved on then, and Harry kept busy. He found the Philosopher's stone in his first year. Then he discovered the Chamber of Secrets in his second. And in his third year he was of course reunited with his godfather, Sirius Black. All those adventures had Harry constantly on edge and there was simply no time to ponder about warm laps. So Harry had stopped thinking about the incident altogether, and since Snape helped by being an absolute dick to him in classes, Harry eventually forgot it ever happened and resorted to reflecting Snape's hate right back at him with equal passion. And yet, it was at the end of third year that bad luck came lurking around the corner again.

The end of term was drawing nearer, and all around the castle tension was palpable because of the upcoming exams. The strain was as usual at its worst in the Potion's classroom, where Snape had deemed it appropriate to cram the revision of a whole year's worth of potions in one single lesson.

Harry had absolutely no idea what the main ingredients for the Wiggenweld Potion were, and by the looks of it, he suspected he wasn't the only one. Well, Hermione knew of course, judging by how she was practically bouncing in her chair to answer Snape's question. He pointedly ignored her and tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk. His irritation at the class only grew when it became apparent nobody was able to provide him with a decent answer.

"For Merlin's sake," he grumbled, "how do you imbeciles expect to pass your tests when you fail to respond to such a simple question? You _are_ all aware that we have been studying the Wiggenweld Potion for weeks on end at the start of this term?"

His question was only met by more silence and flushed cheeks. Snape sighed and turned his back towards the class. With a swish of his wand he opened the doors to his cabinet. Several bottles flew out at once, floating straight towards the students' desks. People cried out in alarm and ducked to avoid being hit on the head by one of the bottles. By the time the ruckus died down, everyone had three jars on their desks: two small ones, and one larger jug.

"Do any of these ingredients look familiar to you?" Snape drawled with his usual sarcasm.

Harry picked up the largest bottle. Salamander blood. Right, he should have known that. Then the others must be… lionfish spine and flobberworm mucus, indeed. He remembered now. They were supposed to be added in that order to create a potion that could wake people from a magically induced sleep. Kind of like what had happened in the story about Cinderella. Harry remembered, because he'd been the only one at the time to make the link with the famous fairy tale. Turned out it was a tale only muggles told their children, and it wasn't known within the wizarding world. Harry had wondered back then how the concept had made it through into muggle folklore.

"For the remainder of this hour I want you to start the brewing process for the Wiggenweld Potion," Snape cut through his thoughts then, "There will be no need to use your textbooks. I expect you to be able to recognize a potion solely by its ingredients by now. Consider it a test to estimate the amount of work you still have left before the start of the exams. You may work in pairs."

It was silent for a few moments as professor Snape's message sunk in. Then, gradually, everyone began to realize that their professor was, in fact, serious and started preparing their cauldrons. So Harry sighed and did the same. He lit a fire and put the cauldron on it. So far so good. Ron, who was sitting right next to him, was staring dumbly at the jars in front of him, scratching his temple, looking for all the world like he had absolutely no idea what their next step should be. Harry's gaze swept through the room and he noticed Hermione, who was working with Parvati at a table in the far corner, take out parchment and a quill, so he followed her example. He scribbled down a few things, while Ron was peering over his shoulder.

"You're sure the Salamander Blood goes in first?" he asked, sounding a bit sceptical. Harry nodded.

"Yes, four times a generous cup, with intervals of about two minutes," Harry replied, while continuing to take notes. Ron was stunned into silence for about three seconds - Harry knew, because he counted it.

"You remember a potion that we made _eight bloody months ago?" _he asked then, astonished. Harry threw him an impish grin.

"Bits and pieced," he admitted, "Don't you remember? I was so grossed out when we had to pour the blood into those weird cups that looked like wine glasses. And the smell; it was horrible! I don't claim to recall everything, but I think I'll be able to make this work."

Ron sighed and clapped Harry on the shoulder.

"You're a lifesaver, Harry," he pronounced, beaming at him.

"Oh, I know," Harry replied, chuckling.

When Harry had finished his notes, they started on the actual brewing process, Harry giving Ron instructions while he kept a careful eye on the recipe he'd just written down to make sure no mistakes were made. He only noticed out of the corner of his eye that professor Snape passed by their table and stopped to peer into their cauldron. Ron tensed beside him, but Harry knew that for once they were on the right track. Their potion was the exact shade of carmine red that was characteristic for the interim phase. Snape couldn't find anything to comment on, and Harry was aware that his gaze swept over their table, to search for hidden textbooks perhaps. He just grunted once, refusing to dignify them with a compliment, and proceeded his tour. Harry and Ron exchanged a gleeful grin.

Neville and Seamus next to them were less lucky, it seemed. Professor Snape unceremoniously plucked the knife out of Neville's hand and pushed the two boys aside to demonstrate how to cut up the lionfish spine. In a few swift chops the spine lay perfectly sliced on the working surface and Snape, mouth curled down disapprovingly, carefully placed the knife back and turned without saying a word. Neville and Seamus stood there, faces gone white, and Harry noticed with some concern that Neville picked the knife back up with trembling hands.

"You okay?" he asked under his breath. Neville's gaze shifted to him and he took a deep breath.

"Yeah," he whispered, shaking his head and trying to throw off the tension, "Yeah, it's fine, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Don't cut yourself," Harry warned, pointing at Neville's shaking hands.

Neville looked at the knife and smiled.

"I'll try," he answered, shrugging, and hesitantly set back to work.

Harry and Ron tried to keep an inconspicuous eye on Neville and, coincidence or not, Snape seemed to be of the same mind. He had moved his chair in front of his desk to have a better outlook and thus managed to intercept a few more mistakes here and there during the next thirty minutes.

"All right, time's up," Snape eventually called, just as Harry put in the last ingredient and the potion instantly turned green, "Flasks over here. I want to be able to inspect them before I label them."

Harry filled a vial, corked it, then held it up to Ron for closer scrutiny. The green syrupy liquid was still lukewarm and swirled around lazily inside the round flask.

"Perfect," Ron pronounced and Harry could only nod. He was reassured by the fact that their potion had the exact same color as Hermione's, and he confidently walked over to Snape.

The man checked the potion for nearly half a minute, turning the vial this way and that. Even though he frowned suspiciously and took extensive notes, Harry wasn't fazed in the slightest. He knew professor Snape would have no choice but to admit it was brewed correctly.

"Seems you were lucky today, Potter," he mumbled, while he labeled the flask and put their names on it: _Potter – Weasley._

"Oh, I don't know if luck's got anything to do with it, sir," Harry started to say. But then a strange sound that reminded him of a fireplace roaring into life whooshed through the room, and someone started squealing.

Harry turned around and froze at the sight before him. It was like a silent movie unfolded before his eyes: slow and just a tad surreal. Neville's potion had apparently caught fire and his sleeve was aflame. It took Harry a moment to realize that it was really happening.

"Neville!" he cried out, horrified.

Neville locked eyes with Harry and the terrified look that was mirrored back at him paralyzed him even more. There was something unidentifiable that shifted in Neville's eyes then and Harry didn't know how or why, but he suddenly knew, instinctively and without a doubt that his friend was going to call on him for help. A jolt went through Harry at the realization. What could he do? He didn't know any spells…

"My arm!" Neville screamed, "Harry, my arm's on fire!"

Before Harry knew how to react, Neville was rushing to him in panic and started waving his burning sleeve right in front of his face. It might have been funny, except that it wasn't.

Harry was startled and staggered back instantly. His calves hit Snape's knees and the next moment Harry found himself, naturally, once more on his professor's lap. There was nothing he could have done. All he could remember about it later were Snape's hands on his waist, preventing him from crushing the man any further. And only a second after that, the feel of the cold, hard dungeon floor since Snape had shoved him roughly off his lap. Harry was completely disoriented by the force of the movement and sat numbly on the stone tiles, while he watched Snape rush to Neville's aid with a fire extinguishing charm. The problem was soon solved, he was told by his friends later at the dinner table, but he couldn't for the life of it recall anything. He had just sat there apparently, completely stunned.

Snape had of course neglected to pull him back to his feet when everything had settled down again. Harry couldn't say he was surprised. Ron was the one who had to pull him up in the end and his friend assured him afterwards he had thrown Snape the dirtiest look he could muster. They had laughed about it later, when they were safe in their dormitories, and they'd held this silly 'dirty look-contest', which Harry had won rather eventually.

But when they went to sleep, Harry found himself wide awake and thinking about Snape's lap. He couldn't help but remember the Quidditch incident almost three years ago.

Twice in a row now. That was weird, wasn't it?

And there was something weird about Snape's reaction as well, now Harry came to think of it. He hadn't just pushed him carefully off his lap. He had forcefully shoved him to the ground in a way that _really_ wasn't necessary. As if Harry had stung him. It wasn't normal, even for Snape.

"_He's probably afraid of physical contact_," Harry mused, not sure what to think about it, "_Would he have reacted in the same way if it had been another student, or is it just me? And what does that mean then?"_

Harry couldn't help it, but he was as much intrigued by Snape's reaction as he was shook up by it. There was _something_ there, he just knew it. He failed to grasp what exactly, but… _something,_ _definitely._ Harry resolved to keep a closer look on that lap from that moment on, because he had a nagging suspicion there were answers to be found there…

HP

Of course, it was just his luck that Snape chose that time to turn into an even bigger jerk than he already was. The man suddenly seemed to clutch at every opportunity to humiliate Harry: in class, in front of his friends, in front of Dumbledore, and later, in front of the Order. Harry didn't get much of a chance to study Snape's lap. He was too busy keeping tabs on that thunderous face, trying to stay out of Snape's sight as much as he could in order to avoid his wrath.

First the insults addressed to him were about his father. They were the worst. Snape reminded him constantly what an arrogant, dimwitted, loathsome man his father had been and that Harry had to be careful since he was well on his way to become the spitting image of his dad. At first Harry had yelled back at him, but that strategy had only landed him in detention with Filch during the final Quidditch match of the season- Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Hermione had warned him many times that he should learn to keep his temper in check, since Snape was obviously trying to get a rise out of him, so Harry eventually resorted to clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. But it wasn't easy, hearing him talk about his father like that.

When the insults about his dad grew old, Snape began to pick on him for his lack of talent in potions. He was called a brain damaged idiot who couldn't tell apart a potion from a glass of pumpkin juice, just because he forgot one single ingredient while brewing the Draught of Peace. Snape started to treat him the same way he treated Neville, shoving him aside to do the slicing work for him like he was a child that knew absolutely nothing, emptying his cauldron with a swish of his wand the moment he made a slight mistake that could have been easily rectified if at least Snape hadn't thwarted him. It was nerve wracking and Harry clenched his teeth together with all the willpower he could muster.

When Snape didn't get a kick out of belittling him because of his ineptitude at potions anymore, he resorted to vicious remarks about his appearance. He told Harry his hair looked like a dirty ceiling mop, that he should wash his clothes more often, that a boy his age should know how to take care of his personal hygiene. He threw in his face that he shouldn't strut around boasting his Quidditch- toned body, because his breath smelled and he was far too skinny anyway for girls to notice him. Harry furrowed his brow as the remarks got stranger and stranger. Snape apparently didn't understand why anybody wanted to be around Harry, because he was a colorless, gutless boy, and he pronounced that statement with the same vigor whether Harry was alone or when they were surrounded by members of the Order. Harry just shrugged it off. The comments had gotten so ridiculous he couldn't bring himself to feel irritated about them anymore. His godfather on the other hand was quite a different story. Snape's behavior made him see red and Harry couldn't count the times the two men clashed so fiercely during an Order meeting that they had to be separated. Harry was not sure how to feel about it. He had become aware that there was a part of him that didn't want his godfather to interfere. This weird power struggle- because that's what it had come to feel like for Harry- was between him and Snape. He didn't want anybody defending him.

And then one day Snape slipped up and berated Harry for the fact that his eyes were too _green_. They were alone in the living room at Grimmauld Place. Harry didn't remember how they happened to land on the topic of his eyes and it didn't matter anyway. He just looked at Snape in astonishment, his mouth agape.

"What?" he asked.

Snape, annoyed, quickly made to wave it away, but Harry thought he had seen just a flash of horror in Snape's eyes before he schooled his features again. For Harry, the pieces began to slowly fall down to fit into the puzzle. He shut his mouth and ploughed on.

"My eyes are _too green_?" he repeated, and quirked an eyebrow, "Really, sir?"

A flash of genuine anger crossed Snape's gaze, but Harry suspected by now it wasn't directed at him.

"Yes, too green," Snape bit at him, "Like…"

"Like my mother's?" Harry offered before his professor could turn this into something nasty and compare the color of his eyes to the green of, for example, Bubotuber Pus. Snape was startled by Harry's response and Harry could see the sudden emotion playing in his eyes. He would claim that he couldn't possibly read that gaze, but that would have been a blatant lie. Because Harry understood, at once: This wasn't about his mother at all. He realized it with the same astonished certainty of a child that suddenly figures out the identity of the man behind that Santa beard. Those comments about his Quidditch-toned body. Not once, but _six _times already Snape had 'berated' Harry for it. How had he not noticed that before? Those had been a dead giveaway. Harry pressed the sudden shyness he felt to the background and forced himself to blurt out, teasingly: "You're going to start picking on my mum now too?"

He watched as Snape's hands balled into powerless fists in his lap. The man opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind and closed it again. Shook his head and averted his gaze. "Stupid boy," he heard Snape ground out quietly through gritted teeth. A few seconds passed by as they sat there, Harry assessing the silent tremors quivering through his professor's frame. It was only when Harry stood from his chair that Snape looked back up. He approached Snape, who was sitting in an armchair, and boldly put a hand on his shoulder. The knowledge he had learned- what Snape really thought about his eyes, and the implication behind it - was somehow making him dizzy and brash and he squeezed the man's shoulder.

"I think you might be losing your touch," he said softly. Snape looked up at him with eyes that were inscrutable. Harry searched his face.

"Are you?" he whispered.

No reply came, and Harry smiled just a tiny smile before he left the room.

HP

So.

Snape might be… feeling something for him. If Harry had read him correctly, that was, but he was pretty sure he had.

Wow. That was… something.

Harry needed a few weeks to think it through. To be honest, he didn't really understand where it came from. What did a sixteen year old boy have that could hold the interest of a man twice his age? Surely not his wisdom or his skills with words? Harry could only snigger as a thought hit him. Maybe it was his Quidditch-toned body after all?

Harry looked at Snape with new eyes. He noticed his awkward, nervous behavior whenever Harry was around. Snape had gone from terrorizing him to ignoring him completely. Or trying to, at least.

He paid attention to Snape's hands, and noticed they were strong and precise thanks to years of slicing ingredients. He watched those slightly hairy hands curl tight around a pestle to crush herbs, saw him brush the hair out of his face with the back of his hand while working on a potion, observed the way he grabbed Sirius' collar in fury during one of the many Order meetings. He found he couldn't avert his gaze.

He watched Snape's face when he thought nobody was looking. He examined the somewhat pouting mouth, his eyes that looked tired more often than not, the long straight nose, the slightly sagging cheeks that somehow did strange things to his body.

And slowly, very slowly, Harry realized that he could come to love that face. Those hands. That lap.

"_Crap,"_ was what he thought, _"I'm screwed."_

HP

The third accident was entirely Molly's fault.

They were all gathered at Grimmauld Place, where an Order meeting had stretched out longer than anticipated, and Molly had announced that she would prepare a meal for everyone.

Harry was talking to Fred and George, who were very excited about a new product they were testing for their joke shop. Next to him- Harry was barely aware- Snape sat at the kitchen table, discussing ministry business with Arthur.

Harry, who was bending forward, leaning his elbows on the table, scooted closer to Fred and George and asked in a whisper: "So, are you still testing at Hogwarts? I haven't seen any students running around vomiting or covered in boils anymore."

Fred and George chuckled and leaned towards Harry.

"We've discovered a better system now," George whispered, "We have a list of first and second years that have signed up for testing. Every time there's a Hogsmeade trip, they assemble in our shop and we test all the products that are still in process in the back. Easy as pie. But keep it quiet, all right?"

Harry shook his head and murmured conspiratorially: "My lips are sealed."

They talked about the shop some more until dinner was ready. Molly approached the table with a very large casserole filled with piping hot green pea soup.

"Be careful, Harry dear," she warned, "You don't want to get burned now."

Harry took a few precautionary steps back, just as Snape was getting up from his chair and, since they were standing so close, they bumped into each other. They landed in the chair, Harry sitting on Snape's lap once again.

He couldn't help but give a chuckle as he turned his head around to look at Snape. Snape's hands were on his thighs and Harry smirked at him. The corners of Snape's mouth turned slightly upwards into what almost seemed like a smile. Harry quirked his eyebrows in surprised amusement, then shook his head.

"Sorry, sir," he said, as he slowly stood up again.

Snape mumbled something unintelligible and smoothed out his robes. Harry walked around the table to sit with Ron and Hermione and tried to ignore the warm feeling in his chest. If anyone thought their behavior to be strange- Arthur, or Fred and George perhaps- they didn't comment on it.

Molly persuaded Snape to stay for at least the soup and soon everyone was enjoying their meal, the warmth and the company. While Ron was wolfing down his soup, it was impossible to talk to him, so Harry started a conversation about Buckbeak with Sirius.

After a while, Harry had to take a leak, so he excused himself. He complimented himself on being able to keep his gaze in check so far. His eyes hadn't wandered to Snape one single time.

All right, maybe once. He was only human after all.

When he left the bathroom again, he bumped into Snape in the hallway. The man was buttoning up his cloak.

"Oh," Harry mumbled, suddenly feeling nervous. It was a particularly narrow hallway and they were standing much closer to each other than they normally would have. "Are you leaving already?"

Snape nodded, but didn't elaborate. He finished fastening his cloak and looked silently down into Harry's eyes. Harry could feel a blush crawling up his cheeks and he cursed internally.

Snape straightened his cuffs and only averted his gaze for a second before looking back up.

"I feel like I should warn you, Mister Potter," he finally said in a perfectly composed voice, "Next time you find yourself on my lap, you ought to be prepared for the consequences."

Harry's heart leapt into his throat at those words and he grinned nervously, fear and excitement blending together into a warm knot in his stomach.

"_Oh really?" _he thought, and he figured just a tad of boldness shimmered through in his sheepish expression.

Then suddenly Snape leaned in with a smirk and Harry jerked away, panicked, his heart going into overdrive.

"For Merlin's sake…" he hissed, eyes wide.

"Relax," Snape soothed. He wiped his thumb over Harry's cheek, while Harry stood frozen.

"Butter on your face," he explained, as he put his thumb in his mouth, "Did anyone teach you table manners at all, Potter?"

Harry swallowed and wondered if it was healthy to have his heart beating so achingly fast. He didn't have a smile in him anymore. He was close to tears, he realized, and he didn't want to think about what his face looked like when Snape gazed into his eyes.

The man assessed him for a moment, then smiled and slowly shook his head. He turned around for the door and didn't look back.

When Snape was gone, Harry stood in the hallway for ten more minutes, leaning with his back against the wall, fist clutched against his chest, while he tried to breathe.

HP

A few very hard years followed. Cedric died. Sirius got murdered by Bellatrix- it nearly crushed Harry's spirit. Then Mad-Eye, Hedwig and Dobby. Tonks and Lupin. And Fred. And then, finally, finally, Voldemort. The war was over.

The first thing Harry and his friends did, was rescue Snape from the Shrieking Shack. The man was in bad shape and Harry tried very hard not to think it through too much. The last thing he wanted was to get his hopes up only to see them being crushed in the end. But Snape did what he had to do: he pulled through with the help of Madam Pomfrey. "Ill weeds grow apace," he'd grumbled, and everybody had laughed dearly at that. Harry couldn't believe how relieved he'd felt when he heard the news. He'd silently cried himself to sleep that night.

And thus, the long process of picking up the pieces had begun. Hogwarts was restored to its former glory over the summer. Numerous students, teachers and parents helped to rebuild the school. And Harry picked up the pieces of his past. He picked up the pictures of his mom and dad, of Sirius on his motorcycle, of himself carrying Hedwig around on platform 9 and ¾, of Christmas at the Burrow with Lupin and Tonks and Fred,… He picked them up when he felt it was time and put the pictures in a large shoebox to be kept under his bed. Every now and then he looked at the pictures with Ron and Hermione. They looked at them until they weren't hard to look at anymore and then hugged, grateful that they still had each other.

Snape resumed his position as Potions professor in the middle of the term. Harry had gone to visit him often when he was in the infirmary and they'd talked a lot. Harry asked him about the healing process- Snape had been paralyzed by the venom of the snake bite and had to learn how to walk again. And Snape informed about his studies when school started again in September, insisting on interrogating him on the subject of Potions. It was inevitable that they grew close. Harry for one knew that people started to frown, but he couldn't stay away from Snape. It was compulsory.

And then- it had always been in the back of Harry's mind that it couldn't be simple coincidence- he landed on Snape's lap a fourth time, during remedial lessons later that year. He didn't even remember how it had happened- something with a big tome that had been stuck in Snape's bookcase and wouldn't be pulled out, he thought. It didn't matter because a second later all he could think of was the firmness of the lap he was on, the fleshy thighs that easily supported him and those large, sure hands that splayed across his stomach like they had never done anything else. He sat there for a few seconds, relishing in the warmth and he felt a jolt go through him when Snape's hands twitched on his stomach.

"_This is ridiculous," _he thought,_ "He's way too old for me. If he even wants me. He might be a second away from pushing me off his lap again."_

Harry sighed and covered his eyes. Snape hadn't said a word.

"I'm sorry, sir" he mumbled, resigning himself to a feverish wanking session in his bed, as he slowly got up, "I wasn't paying attention. You know how clumsy I can get."

Snape sighed and took hold of his wrist. Harry's heart lurched as Snape turned him around, never relinquishing his hand. They stared at each other for a while, Harry leaning back against Snape's desk, trying to act naturally. The man had the tiniest of smiles playing on his lips. Harry felt Snape's thumb slowly stroke the sensitive flesh of his palm. He swallowed. Snape slowly leaned forward and took Harry's other hand as well. His throat felt dry, so he swallowed again.

"Sir…" he began, not sure what he wanted to say.

"Harry," Snape replied calmly.

Harry bit his lip. He didn't miss the way Snape's eyes flitted to his mouth and he could feel a blush rising on his cheeks.

"I…erm," Harry stuttered, noticing that he was squeezing Snape's hands like his life depended on it. _Stupid, stupid nerves._

'Mmh?" Snape asked, tilting his head only slightly.

"What are you doing?" he asked, just to fill the silence. He felt bloody ridiculous. It was clear what his professor was doing, so why was he asking? And why, for Merlin's sake, did Snape have to look at him like that?

"You knew this was going to happen one day, Harry," Snape finally said.

Harry hesitated. The feel of Snape's thumbs caressing his hands was setting him on edge. He shifted uncomfortably.

"But...Are you…? I mean…" he stuttered. He cut himself off as Snape's eyes flashed back up to him.

"You knew this would happen," he repeated simply, "Or didn't you?"

Harry shrugged nervously. A frown marred Snape's face.

"Didn't you?" Snape repeated his question, and he gave his hand a slightly demanding squeeze.

Harry chewed on his lip again, a blush crawling up his cheeks. He didn't understand why it was so hard to answer a simple question like that.

"Well, yes, I… I guess I…erm…I was… I needed erm…," he took a deep breath, "Yes."

Snape didn't bother to hide his smirk.

"I'm not sure I got that, Harry," he chuckled, "Would you care to repeat?"

Harry dug his nails in his professor's hands, feeling utterly embarrassed and angry and confused.

"For fuck's…," he grumbled quietly, eyes cast down, "You know I've been obsessed with that lap of yours for years. How can you even think…? All I've been thinking about lately is that I wanted you to come onto me. So for fuck's sake, sir, seduce me already, because I don't have a clue how to do it."

A few seconds ticked away between them and Harry didn't want to think about how furiously red his cheeks looked now. Then Snape chuckled.

"Don't you?" he whispered, almost too silent for Harry to catch it. He let go of Harry's left hand to lift his chin.

"Thank you, Harry," Snape spoke, "I was starting to worry I'd misread the signs."

Harry sighed. "No, you didn't."

He couldn't deny the heavy ache he felt in his chest. No one had ever told him butterflies felt like that.

They looked at each other for a few moments, not sure what to do. Snape played with Harry's hand, while the man seemed to grow nervous himself.

"Why don't you start…" Snape suggested, "I mean… Why don't you sit on my lap for a while, Harry? If that's all right with you?"

Harry nodded, feeling like a stupid child while Snape tugged on his hands, pulling him forward. Harry thought for a second to sit sideways on the man's lap, but then realized how painfully ridiculous that would be. There was an awkward moment when Harry's legs stiffly hit Snape's knees, and Snape looked at him with an unfathomable expression. Then Harry mustered up all of his courage and spread his legs to slide on Snape's lap, and if his professor smirked at him in tender amusement Harry didn't notice.

The man's arms wound around his waist. Harry stiffened at the intimate gesture. He had never been held like that, not by a man whose intentions were so clear on his face.

"Put your arms around me, Harry," Snape ordered softly, "I'm not going to eat you."

"This feels weird," Harry breathed, shivering slightly. His hearth was hammering in his chest.

Snape chuckled.

"Well, not to me," the man said, "This feels more like coming home actually."

He started to stroke Harry's back and Harry jerked again.

"Relax," he soothed, running a hand through the boy's hair, 'Lean against me, Harry. I want you to."

Snape rubbed small circles into his back. The two men sat there for the better part of an hour and gradually, Harry allowed himself to relax. The tension in his arms and shoulders slowly melted away, and after a while Harry forced himself to unclench his fists and carefully rest his hands on Snape's back. He realized only his toes were touching the ground, so he lowered his feet and was surprised at how relieved his muscles felt. The first time Harry felt his stomach brush against Snape's, he jerked awkwardly and sucked in his belly. Snape had to remind him to breathe. But somewhere along the way, their bodies found the language in which to communicate with each other and Harry grew calm against Snape. His nose buried in the crevice of Snape's hot neck, his hand tucked away under the man's moist armpit, Harry couldn't do anything but let go of his initial awkwardness. It felt too thrilling to shyly caress the man's stomach through the thin fabric of his robes, to play with the buttons on his shirt, to teach his fingers the nature of that surprisingly soft face.

"Severus," he whispered against the man's earshell, only to examine how the name would sound coming from his lips. Not as composed as he perhaps would have liked, if he were honest.

"Mmh…" Severus hummed, while he moved his nose slowly against Harry's, making him shiver in anticipation. They were a breath away from kissing, Harry knew. Something unspeakable coiled in Harry's stomach as Severus brushed his cheek against him, ghosted his lips across his forehead, kissed his eyelids, his nose, his jaw,… His heartbeat pulsated in his throat now. But Harry waited and waited, and his lips were ignored. He pulled back, not sure what to feel.

"Merlin, Severus, are you deliberately…?" he asked uncertainly, "Why are you avoiding…? I mean…"

He blushed as it dawned on him that he couldn't say the words, that he couldn't just _ask _Severus to kiss him and that he was in fact only embarrassing himself by rambling like an idiot. A genuine flash of amusement flitted across Severus' face as he realized what Harry was talking about.

"I'm right here, Harry," he smirked, running his hands up the boy's thighs as he leaned back in his chair, "What's stopping you?"

Harry realized it would be bold, extremely so, to kiss his teacher. Technically, he didn't even know if it was legal. But he'd been dreaming about tasting Severus for so long now… He swallowed and licked his lips, very aware that Severus was waiting for him to make a move. His gaze darted down to Severus' mouth, to that plump bottom lip he'd noticed before, and before he knew it, he'd reached out and cupped Severus' face. Stroked his thumb over that fleshy lip. Severus hummed and closed his eyes, leaning his face into Harry's touch.

Harry wanted to assault that mouth the moment he saw it did that pouting thing again. He unthinkingly lurched forward, intent on devouring those lips whole, but when their mouths finally met, Harry jerked to a surprised stop. Severus' lips were so deliciously _weak,_ so yielding, it left Harry completely unguarded. Severus' mouth helplessly molded against his, it molded and it melted, and Harry was moved beyond words. He tasted Severus' lips from the outside, and he tasted them on the inside and he lost himself entirely in the sheer amount of softness. He'd kissed Cho, but not like that. He'd kissed Ginny. No comparison. Severus' mouth was an entity on its own, and if Harry hadn't been sitting down already, his knees would have given way. He slid his hands slowly over Severus' shoulders. He opened his eyes as he felt Severus' tongue gently stroking his own, and they looked at each other for just a moment, silently acknowledging the perfection of their kiss. A fierce wave of fondness swept over him and his fists clutched at Severus' robes as he closed his eyes again and slid his tongue in even deeper.

"Merlin, your _mouth,"_ he groaned, as he slid his hand in Severus' hair, nestling his fist tightly at the base of the man's skull. He couldn't help but inch closer and inch closer, until he was eventually, inevitably, perched right on top of Severus' warm groin. The heat blazed through the fabric of the pants and Harry felt a distinct twitch, and then another, and his eyes fluttered open. Severus' eyes were blazing and Harry gazed right back, fiercely, as they kissed and kissed while Severus turned rock hard beneath him.

Harry's hand slipped between them and he could barely suppress a sob when he squeezed his own arousal through his jeans. He hesitated only a moment, fingers ghosting over Severus' stomach, before he had the courage to cup the clear bulge between Severus' legs. The man jerked, as he was pleased to notice, and Harry pulled back. He let Severus read the audacity that was, without a doubt, unmistakable in his eyes. Harry curled his hands more firmly around Severus' erection and started rubbing him. He could feel everything through that thin layer of cotton and Harry made a mental note to warn Severus he shouldn't be wearing those indecent pants in class anymore.

Severus pulled his hand away from his groin, and he was smiling a little.

"Harry, slow down," he said, "We're not doing anything here, in the middle of the classroom."

Harry watched as his teacher pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his hand.

"Then let's go to your room," Harry proposed, "Don't you have your own private quarters?"

"Why would you want to rush elsewhere?" Severus asked, and a smirk tugged on his lips, "Perhaps I'm just flattering myself when I thought that you were enjoying what we were doing a moment ago?"

Harry frowned at him in mock irritation.

"I am," he replied, as he ghosted his fingers over Severus' lips, "I just want…"

Severus smiled.

"You just want…?"

"More…" Harry finished, the whispered word floating along on his breath as he captured Severus' mouth again. He swiftly undid the buttons on Severus' trousers and the man chuckled quietly, while he tried to restrain him.

"Harry, I'm not going to fuck you now, you overheated monkey," he whispered in his ear.

"I need to see that lap of yours," Harry smiled, and kissed Severus' jaw, "After all those years, I think you owe it to me."

"I owe it…?" Severus started, but Harry cut his words off with a blazing kiss.

"Teach me about your lap, Severus," he pleaded.

Harry felt a shiver rocking through Severus' frame. And still the man shook his head.

"We're going to build this up, Harry," he said, but he could hear the man's voice wavering, "Slowly."

Harry traced his tongue over Severus' neck and took his earlobe in his mouth, kissed him until he felt dazed.

"Take me to your room," he whispered in his ear. Severus let out a quivering breath.

"Monkey…" he breathed hoarsely.

"Please," Harry begged.

"I'm not going to fuck you…"

"Mmh…"

"I'm not…"

HP/SS

Severus fucked Harry twice that day. He taught him everything there was to know about his lap in the days and weeks that followed, until there wasn't anything left to learn. And Harry came to the conclusion that he now owned the most wonderful lap in the entire world.

And if people asked him later about how he and Severus could have possibly gotten together, Harry told them how the war had brought them closer, and how Severus had saved his life so many, many times.

But he didn't tell anyone that it was Severus' heavenly lap that had started it all. That was a secret that he would take to the grave.

THE END


End file.
